Memorium for a Lost Garden

Wonderful morning in the garden - mild air, blue sky, the sweet sound of birds, aching back, and all that goes with clearing away the winter debris and making room for the lovely green shoots pushing their way towards the light.

As Charles pruned the roses, and reported hopefully on their condition, I hacked away at tall dried stalks, and as I worked my mind wandered to the garden we left behind us when we moved almost four years ago. The Lost Garden.

It truly is a lost garden - nobody to care for it, and yet there is a wonderfully courageous air about it, as the shrubs bloom and the plants push brave new greenery above ground.



We drive by each Sunday on our way to get the paper. The Star Magnolia is now just starting to bloom....



And though the forsythia has not been pruned since last Charles clipped its glorious branches, it will be beautiful and golden for almost a month.




There are three beloved shrubs in the farmer's way. I understand he plans to shovel them out SOON and I am hoping that rather than destroy them he will be sweet and generous and allow us to bring them to the new garden. There is a fragrant viburnum, which I have for the last three springs tried to replace, and a lace cap climbing hydrangea which is heavenly with blue iris and red poppies. And a rather tattered looking hibiscus that needs to be shaped and loved.





The sweet peas we have perpetuated were planted by Charles' mother on the orchard that his grandfather planted when he returned from the Alaska Gold Rush, and they still grow on the original orchard. We have carried seed carefully from place to place, and they grew vigorously last year in the new garden, here on the pasture.



Our new garden has been a delight to create, but in my memory are all the wonderful hours I spent, early in the morning and in the cool of the evening, reveling in the care of the flowers, - the roses and iris and phlox and daisies. I remember with such great affection all the trees that Charles planted, - dozens and dozens on the three acres that made up the property. Almost all gone now, - yanked out to accommodate a market garden or fruit trees. Alas, alas....

We were so fortunate to have had this Lost garden while we were still vigorous and in the golden years.

We are so fortunate now to have a spectacular view, a quiet pasture, and a precious microgarden to accommodate (in jungle fashion) a wonderful medley of our favourites.

0h March, - you crazy mixed up month!



Yesterday, from the top of an apple tree which he was pruning, # 3 Son used his Cell Phone to alert me to the presence of a meadowlark in the near vicinity, and thus claims the honour of the first kid to tell mother about the arrival of the meadowlarks, - dear creatures who put end to the rumour that winter will go on forever this year....

Today I heard another one,
and whilst walking Caspar early in the day I saw a big fat robin
resting in the neighbour's cherry tree.

Charles and I drove by the Lost Garden that we left behind when we moved,
inspecting the shrubs and hazelnut trees that the farmer is going to tear up this spring, to make room for crops!
We imagined the Viburnum and the Hibiscus and the climbing Hydrangea lining a pathway around the periphery of the garden.....

When we stopped at the grocery store after church
there were encouraging patches of blue sky.

The girl at the check out counter had smelled skunk this morning.

The wind came up and blew wildly,
this way and that.

When I came out of the grocery store
there were light flakes of snow floating on the wind.

The last pile of icy snow in the garden
has finally released
the Hellebores.

Just down the valley a farmer set his pruning pile alight,
and smoked billowed up to meet the low clouds.

Tonight the air was mild,
and the sky had turned the tender blue of spring.

Across the valley a hollow near the mountain top
held an ephemeral mist,
Spring's hide-away perhaps?

After being plunged into a day of retrospect inspired by reading a list of literature that had influenced the life of The Weaver of Grass I decided that I too would accept the invitation of The Crafty Green Poet to record the books that have being meaningful in my life.

1. The first book I can recall was about King Arthur, probably the junior book "King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table", and I would imagine I received this as a birthday gift when I was about six. I remember being told that I would grow into it!

2. The Book of Common Prayer - the prayers and passages which were part of my childhood re-echo in my mind more than you might imagine, having been away from a purely Anglican Church for almost forty years.

3. Peggy Parsons, a Hampton Freshman by Annabel Sharp (still available) - it made me dream of going away to College. But I didn't until all the children were in their teens..

4. The love poems of Sara Teasdale were dear to me when Charles was a Lancaster Pilot flying out of the Midlands in England. "It is enough of honour for one lifetime...."

5. When I was immersed in motherhood Anne Lindbergh's "Gift From the Sea" opened many doors for me.

6. And when we were first farming Malabar Farm by Louis Bromfield was both practical and romantic.

7. I came fairly early to Will and Ariel Durant. I have passed on their wonderful books on Civilization, but keep a copy of "The Story of Philosophy" and "The Lessons of History".

8. Ex Libris by Anne Fadiman, given to me by my sister-in-law, - I have read it again and again and again...

9. Thomas Firbank's "I bought a Mountain" - another gift from my SIL, stirs up great memories of our own sheep experiences. We went on to read his other books as well, - with true enjoyment.

10. At one period of my life John Fowles brought a great deal of turmoil into my life with his philosophy and his comments on the human situation. I can't remember now if I read him before I read..

11. "Hymn of the Universe" by Teilhard de Chardin, - I only know they still sit together on my bedside shelves, - although somewhat separated by a few books that don't cause such consternation with their different philosophies. I still haven't quit asking questions.

12. Lillian Beckwith's tales of the Hebrides, - wonderfully human.

13. Ogden Nash - wonderfully ironic.

14. "The Immense Journey" by Loren Eiseley - begging to be re-read for his marvelous insight into nature.

15. For humour and wisdom, Peg Bracken's "A window over the sink", and

16. The Journals of Bartholomew Bandy, by Donald Jack.

17. Every last one of Susan Howatch's series on the Clergy of the Church of England. As well as

18. Penmarric.

19. The poetry of Gerard Manly Hopkins, - especially "The Windhover" and "God's Grandeur"

20. Theodroe Roethke's "The Waking" and "My Papa's Waltz".

21. Alexander McCall Smith - all his books bring me delight - his writings are gentle and civilized!


22. Robert Louis Stevenson - "A Child's Garden of Verse" - for all the tender memories it brings to mind.

23. "The Songs of Solomon" for their beautiful lyricism.

24. "A Garden for all Seasons" - prosaically printed by The Readers' Digest.

25. "Journal of Solitude" by May Sarton. "Solitude," she writes, "like a long love, deepens with time, and I trust will not fail me as my own powers of creation diminish. For growing into solitude is one way of growing to the end." - back cover, The House by the Sea

Charles has been gently remonstrating with me about the fullness of my life's agenda, and as I leafed through the Aristos I found underline on page 41,(probably forty years ago) "The anxiety of time. Have I the time to do what I want?"

The more things change the more they remain the same - who'd a thought it, - I wonder what next!!

Thank you Weaver, (and the Crafty Green Poet), for the memories....

SPRING - lost on the pathway to Summer....

The redwing blackbirds are awaiting, and one lone robin has been seen searching for swelling buds and green grass.



Pussy Willow and forsythia brighten up the indoors, and outside the sky is blue and the sun shines brilliantly. But the North Wind is bitter, - so bitter....



And where is Spring????

Has she abandoned us for some wayward pleasure?

Alas,

I have it on good authority....



While she dallies and flirts the earth waits patiently, but I'm here to tell you, there is wailing and gnashing of teeth amongst gardeners......

What am I reading?

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society.



Well, that's what I was reading, - now I am re-reading bits and pieces before I have to return it to the library, and wondering why I waited so many months for my turn to enjoy it. Why didn't I buy it in the first place?

I didn't know it was going to be so charming, and at the same time have such depth to it. It was the title that first attracted me - a lot to be said for titles that capture the imagination. You could probably write a real dud, and if it had a fascinating title people would pine to read it, and at least get through the first few chapters.

Not so with the Guernsey book. It reminds me of an English trifle. I hope you have clicked on the link and read the review, for then you will understand that its light-heartedness is the whipped cream on the top of the trifle, - dig down and you will find an appetizing mix of fruit and cake, a little sweet sherry, some soft custard, and at the very bottom a bittersweet chocolate to represent the dark days of the occupation.

Charles was aware of the extent of the occupation of the Channel Islands, but I had not realized the hardships and oppression they lived with.

Epistolary novels (as this is) can be 'almost voyeuristic from a reader's point of view' - a clandestine reading of another's intimate correspondence. It lends a novel a certain realism when one considers the contents straight from the 'horses' pen. Personally I think this form of novel is very captivating, and carries one along with great interest to read just one more letter, and then just one more reply...and perhaps the next letter, - and on, and on.....

I am reminded of '84 Charing Cross Road' by Helen Hanff, and Alice Walker's 'Color Purple" and C.S. Lewis and 'The Screwtape Letters. Sometimes the epistolary carriage is a diary, as in that of Bridget Jones, and The Adrian Mole Diaries, and most famous of all, the Diary of a Young Girl by Anne Franke.

Now that I have been charmed by the Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society I am back to where I left off reading 'The Elegance of the Hedgehog' by Muriel Barbery"



The Hedgehog is a small, exclusive apartment building in Paris. The book has two heroines, - Madame Renee Michel, the 54 year old concierge of the building, intelligent and introspective behind her guise as a poor peasant, and an occupant, Paloma Josse, a twelve year old French whiz kid who, from her amazingly realistic observation of life so far, has decided it is hardly worth the effort.

I found the reviews of this book to range wildly from slight venom to extravagant praise for its philosophical backdrop. It is said that the French have enfolded this book to their hearts much as Americans accept the writings of Alexander McCall Smith. Of course, with my fondness for Alexander McCall Smith I have a bias towards a more favourable view of the Elegance of the Hedgehog.

Here is what Michael Dirda of the Washington Post has to say...

"This is a very French novel: tender and satirical in its overall tone, yet most absorbing because of its reflections on the nature of beauty and art, the meaning of life and death. Out of context, Madame Michel's pensees may occasionally sound pretentious, just as Paloma might sometimes pass for a Gallic (and female) version of Holden Caulfield. But, for the most part, Barbery makes us believe in these two unbelievable characters."

I like it - but have half of the book yet to read. It still makes bedtime (reading time) something to look forward to.

And when I have finished - what next? Any suggestions....

What came in the Post Today.....

Some days it isn't worth stopping for the mail, but today we hit the jackpot.

I opened the post box door and was excited to see the parcel key sitting at the front edge...the present had arrived for great grandson #2 who celebrates his first birthday on Sunday. William Lincoln - named after his father, his paternal grandfather, his maternal great grandfather and his paternal great-great grandfather, the latter two both born on Lincoln's birthday. A sturdy lad, - bonny and sweet dispositioned.

We had ordered a beautiful hand made wooden top for him, from Wishin' on a Star (see my sidebar and do open the site and exclaim over the wonderfully crafted tops for children - and adults.}




When I arrived home I stopped to put the kettle on, but then quickly opened the box I had carried in. Over tea we unpacked the top, the extra launcher and the nice wooden display block.

I saw my Tea Companion's eyes light up and his fingers begin to twitch!!! In no time he had proclaimed First Dibs and was busily winding the launching cord.....

Look, see how finely balanced it is! It twirls for nigh on to four minutes. Won't the little one be wide eyed! As for the adults, I think it is in the same class of contention as a miniature railroad, prompted by deep childhood memories.



The other two items in the post box bore dreams and promises and turned me right away from March and into the midst of summer.

Gorgeous, fantastic, bewitching flower catalogs that promise more than the heart and reality can bear. The garden is already jam packed with heady roses and lilies, delphinium and peonies, and a dozen other favourites. Where can I find room for a cutting garden? Or for the butterfly blue scabiosa or the pink pampas grass? Or the hardy evergreen Bamboo, - perhaps along the west side of the garage? I am beguiled into dreams, but have been down this garden path before and know that at the end of it lies stark reality! No room, no room - not enough energy - be content!



A lovely haul from the post box, - probably tomorrow will bring only bills and flyers, but today was a bonus. And on Sunday we will go and have birthday cake with the darling little boy.

Associations between gardening and prayer are pretty obvious, - both done fervently and with a degree of discipline, joy and frustration. And on one's knees!

Jane Mossendew's series "Gardening with God" illustrates the link between the church year and the cycles of nature. I first became aware of these books in 2006, and in Lent of that year I read "Thorn, Fire and Lily" which begins on Ash Wednesday.



This year, with spring so late here in the Similkameen and Easter middling so, it seems like a hopeful occupation to re-read the Lenten meditations and all the lovely plant information with their Lenten themes.

When I started reading on the Thursday after Ash Wednesday I was delighted to discover that Borage, the Star flower was the plant of the day.



Borage and I have a long time relationship, - sometimes loving, sometimes despairing when the plant becomes too bold and decides to carry on with other garden flowers. It turns up in the most unexpected places, and although it never fails to enhance the scene, sometimes it's just a bit too much.

With its hairy leaves it is not hard to associate it with the "hair shirt" of lenten discipline. Jane Mossendew likes to think that Borage comes from the old Celtic borrach, meaning courage, "and that if this is true it could have been brought to Gaul and thence to Britain in early Christian times".

"Whatever the truth, it has long been known as the 'herb of courage' and ladies would embroider its bright blue flowers on the jerkins of knights about to depart for the Crusades".

What a versatile herb it is. It has a euphoric effect, and has been used to treat depression, - and in that vein it was once the herb of Plimms, before it was replaced by mint.

If it is used in salads it is expected to exhilarate and make the mind glad, - the opinion of Gerard in The Herbalist (1597). And he continues to tells us that Borage is also used for the "comfort of the heart, to drive away sorrow and increase the joy of the minde" A truly excellent plant, despite its wandering ways - the most appealing of blues.

Early summer mornings in the garden, when the flowers of the flax open their lovely blue eyes, and the borage winds amongst the roses and the lilies, it is true blue delight.

Yesterday, the first Sunday in Lent, stachys, or Lamb's Ear was the plant Jane Mossendew chose to remind us of the words of the Prayer of General Confession "we have erred and strayed from Thy ways like lost sheep". Alas, in our Ecumenical church we no longer repeat this old familiar prayer.



Lamb's Ear is another of those nomads of the garden, - I even find it down along the lane, and it ventures further and further out past the confines of the garden.

I remember almost sixty years ago, when we were so young and in the church, singing All in an April Evening - I saw the sheep with their lambs and I thought on the Lamb of God. Sometimes, in the spring, I play it as an organ prelude.

Today I brought in some 'sticks' from the forsythia, and a few small branches from the flowering almond. The almond is the plant for tomorrow, and as I turn the page I see a note to myself 'plant a flowering almond this spring - will it have ten years to grow?' Well, it has had three, and is doing famously. We rescued it from the Lost Garden that we moved from, - it had been run over by a tractor. Charles and I found a great spot for it, planted it tenderly, and now in the spring it is covered with small pink blooms.

My beloved has gone down to his garden, to the beds of spices, to pasture his flock in the gardens, and to gather lilies.
Song of Solomon 6:2

Reality in the house, - the flowers of Winter.

But out in the garden the buds swell softly and down the road the pussy willow tree at the big house braves winter's bitter farewell, - and inclines me to dream and entreat....

Shall I call the flowers?

Come littlest, come tenderest,
Come whispering over the small waters,
Reach me rose, sweet one, still moist in the loam,
Come, come out of the shade, the cool ways,
The long alleys of string and stem;
Bend down, small breathers, creepers and winders;
Lean from the tiers and benches,
Cyclamen dripping and lilies.
What fish-ways you have, littlest flowers,
Swaying over the walks in the watery air,
Drowning in soft light, petals pulsing.
Theodore Roethke

A familiar sight on Shrove Tuesday.

These are not the men of our Parish, but here is the clean-up crew that took over when all the pancakes and sausage and eggs were scoffed...



And here are some of the people who scoffed them...



A friendly outreach into the community and a really delightful evening, which morphed overnight into the somberness of Ash Wednesday.



The purple of Lent - and now begin the days of mindfulness and spiritual examination.

This Lent I have chosen to re-read a book by Lucinda Vardey and John Dalla Costa - Being Generous, The Art of Right Living.

I quote from the outside cover......

"Generosity, as the word itself connotes, is about not only giving but also generating. It is a creative act, rather than a handout, an attitude or ethos rather than an exchange between someone who has too much and someone who has too little. Even when pursuing other objectives, or coming from other motivations, generosity is often at the heart of what brings peace and real self-worth... In virtually all relationships, but especially in friendship, partnership and marriage, generosity is the expansive quality energizing hope and happiness. As such, generosity is not optional. Nor can it be occasional. Rather, it works its uplifting magic only when it becomes a central characteristic and ordering principle in one's everyday life".

It is a goal worth achieving, - to avoid the mean and miserly, and to embrace life itself with a spirit of positiveness and sharing. To be mindful of making generosity a way of life, so that where love lives misery cannot abide.

Will I be successful? - ah, who knows. It takes a lifetime of striving to overcome ego and look outward with open arms and heart. And an awareness...

"This delicate balance of living generosity as a spiritual practice takes some dedication and resolve. Like all magnificence it can't align aspiration with practice without a dutiful development of consciousness"
.

The wonder of our consciousness which we
neglect to explore in depth, although we see
that it and it alone provides the cast
that makes the universe so huge and vast,
that it and it alone supplies the base
for all the immensity of time and space,
that it and it alone allots the size,
the shape and form which we mark with our eyes,
also the number, distance and the span
of time we try to calculate and scan.
Gopi Krishna

I was late taking coffee out to the man in his workshop. Breakfast was late because we'd had such a nice sleep-in.

When I slipped out the door with the coffee tray (guiltily eluding Caspar who has a little inner clock that tells him when it's time for walks and biccies)I found a large coffee tin on the workbench,(one of many that grace the garage) - the repository for numerous small treasures which were now laid out in rows, neatly wrapped in plastic bags. A lifetime of precious findings, although they may have merely carried visions of a practical future when first they were gathered.

I understand this quite well, being something of a hoarder myself, - is there anybody who grew up in hard times who has never said "I might need it some day" as they wrapped some precious object and put it away in a large coffee can, or a drawer or a trunk, along with all the other treasures.

And they were lovely, these small brass hinges and drawer pulls and the tiny coaster balls that were most practical when you needed to make something movable. There was no expendable plastic amongst them. They were all heavy and durable and spoke clearly of days gone by, when even small hardware was made to last and be elegant.

We discussed possible ways of using the drawer pulls, - or the double hinges that would go on a swinging door, if we had room for such a convenience. I came away empty handed, but I know that each and every one of those small plastic bags went back into that large coffee can, just in case they should be needed for another day.

I ponder - is it nature, or nurture? Is it hard times and a scarcity of the means to replace things that causes us to save and make do, and use our inventiveness to make those funny redneck things instead of going out and buying new? Never mind that they work, - they always draw smirks from those not afflicted....

Or is it a gene?

If it's a gene I can see that there is a possibility of these coffee cans being around until at least the end of the century. We have six children, some of whom I suspect are incapable of throwing things away. You know who you are!

There are great advantages to being a morning person.



By ten o'clock you have accomplished enough to carry you through the rest of the day with an easy conscience. And you can slide into tea-time and the happy hour looking back on the pot of soup you put on to simmer before the sun was up, and the apple pies that were cool by noon, feeling fairly pleased with yourself (but not too fatuous, we hope).

It was good to be in the kitchen today. Winter skulked around outside in company with a damp, raw wind. For a short while the sun battled valiantly to part the clouds, but alas, in vain.

I notice that the snow drifts are somewhat diminished, and that gives me some hope that they will be gone before tulip time.

To tide me over 'til then, - the magic that happens on the wide bathroom windowsills
where the amaryllis have blossomed overnight.

A pleasant day...

Slept in until seven a.m. - comfortably and with no little guilty feelings prodding at me.

Awakened to the promise of blue sky and sunshine, and indeed the sun did shine. But strangely.

No. 3 son called to alert me to the interesting ring around the sun, so I grabbed my inadequate camera and did the best I could to get a picture. By putting on my rose coloured glasses and squinting sideways at the sun I was able to see it distinctly, glowing in all it's splendor in the midst of a hazy ring, surrounded on the outside by quite a distinct halo.



Our artist daughter called to ask me to have lunch with her, and sent me home with three interesting gourds, - one in the shape of a perky long-necked goose, beautifully mottled and covered with little knobs.



About four or five prints of work in progress (copyrighted) which she kindly gave me permission to reprint here.....





And a VHS on Crop Circles, which led us into a discussion on the future, and the changes it holds for mankind, - the end of the age of logic, quantum physics and a few other things that I find extremely puzzling and out of the bounds of my understanding. But she knows that, so we parted amicably.

When I went to shop the young man behind me at the check out counter was buying four bouquets of spring flowers and carnations, which piqued my interest approvingly. More men should buy more flowers whomever they might be for!

The sun was still shining when Casper and I went out for our late afternoon walk. The air was mild, and I'm sure Spring was at least scouting things out. The ice which formed a tiny skating rink had melted, and there was a puddle in its place, but the snow still continues in the garden.

I fed the birds and then poked around the Lenten Roses, which are still partly encased in ice. However, I found two green fingerlings pushing through the skim of ice on the sunny side of the plant, and my heart smiled!

On the window ledge over the big bathtub three of the amaryllis that were potted after Christmas are almost in bloom.

I told you it was a pleasant day!

At one time I had both Volumes of the Collected Grooks of Piet Hein. Now I find only Volume 1 on my bookshelves (which are scattered hither and yon around the house).

Did I give the other away? It is quite possible that I slipped it into a gift of books and sent it off in the mail. It would be something I wouldn't mind sharing.

I have always been delighted with Grooks, - well, more than delighted... Behind each verse is a serious thought; a tantalizing expression of common wisdom, - something we all know, and in which we find wry humour.

The Cure for Exhaustion

Sometimes, exhausted
with toil and endeavour,
I wish I could sleep
for ever and ever;
but then this reflection
my longing allays:
I shall be doing it
one of these days.

Makes you perk right up and enjoy each available moment!



Piet Hein was known as Kumbel Kumbell when his Grooks first were published in 1940. When the German occupation of Denmark became more than an administrative effort, and the dark side of the German agenda became more apparent, Piet Hein disappeared into the Underground Resistance. His Grooks became messages of encouragement to the Danes who were enduring this menacing occupation.

A highly intelligent man with common-sense, Piet Hein, it is said, compares favourably with Albert Einstein and Buckminster Fuller.

Among his inventions:

The Superellipse, whose shape was adopted in Danish furniture, in parks and stadiums and in city planning, - and whose equation is a little beyond my ken, although I understand the concept.

The Soma Cube - "he conceived the idea of the SOMA cube in 1936, during a lecture on Quantum physics by Werner Heisenberg" and if the link works there are a lot of fascinating details about this addictive combination of shapes.

The game of Hex was invented in 1942 by Piet Hein, and then reinvented in 1948 by John Nash. It got its name in 1952 from a commercial distribution by Parker Brothers and was popularized by Martin Gardner in 1957. Piet was a whizz at formulating mathematical games and engineering mathematical shapes - here is his concept of a free standing egg....



All very astonishing, but my bent is more literal than mathematical, and so I appreciate most his words on The Miracle of Spring..

We glibly talk
of nature's laws
but do things have
a natural cause?

Black earth turned into
yellow crocus
is undiluted
hocus-pocus.

Born February 16th, 1902

In one of the stars, I shall be living.
In one of them, I shall be laughing.
And so it will be as if all the stars were laughing when you look at the sky at night.
~ The Little Prince, Antoine de Saint-Exupery

In loving Memory of our Mother, Dorothy Emily Grace Clark
who lived her life with grace and courage
Day by day.

Twilight fell with the snow clouds gathering and a slight scattering of flakes.

The birds all left early for secure nighttime accommodation. Just underneath their feeders, and slightly to the right the snow has drifted about two feet deep, and is frozen solid. Underneath it lies the rhubarb plant. Hopefully its sweet and stubby red roots are beginning to push underground. The ground is still frozen where the ice and snow resist the few hours of sunshine we are getting here in the Similkameen.

Tonight, in Blogland, I read about someone's first pick of spring rhubarb simmering on the stove.

It nigh on sent me out with the pick-axe to clear the snow and ice away, and let the scarlet rhubarb stubs reach for the sunlight and the mild, clear daytime air. I know that the Lenten roses are in the same predicament, and long to open their petals to the sky.

There are promising puddles in the afternoon, as the sun warms the earth and the air, but at night the frost comes again, and in the morning there are small skating rinks all around the yard. If I could return to the days when I was small and bob skates were still an excitement to me, I could have a jolly time out on these little patches, red scarf trailing and rosy cheeks and ears.....

We have the occasional fiery sunrise, and for a little while each day there are small bits of bright blue in the sky, but on the whole the clouds hold sway.








A few days ago, as I rose in the morning, I caught a glimpse of the moon, just slipping away in the west, all glorious and glowing and in a marvelous shimmer. I wished for a camera that could capture its beauty.



We are fortunate in this valley, where the hills protect us from great extremes of weather, and sometimes the winters are open and mild. The year we left the farm and went to live by the river we planted potatoes on the 4th of March...

I have a few packages of rhubarb left in the freezer, - we will have to be content with a bit of last year's fruit, with some nice creamy custard....or maybe a pie!

P.S. Overnight Winter crept back softly, but with some determination, and we woke to this February fairyland.

Sweetheart

It seems like only Yesteryear

I met you by the river, dear...

And all the moments in between

Have bound you to my heart poltreen******

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY LOVE


****** an Irish term of endearment designed to rhyme with 'between'

www.clintondeckert.com

After dark, when all the mystery happens, I put away my daily persona and with a touch of the magical mouse I turn into a wanderer of the night, - a Nomad in Blogland. An enchanting country where I find the most charming illusions, the most captivating word pictures and the most imaginative and creative stories.

My world expands as the magic mouse leads me down the lists of Spectacular Blogs, and a click of his little left ear takes me into posts of such beauty and detailed description that I turn crimson with pleasure and green with envy.

I am intriqued with my journeys to different lands, to the writings of different generations, to the appealing way certain writers have of interpreting the world of their imagination. And the marvelously commonplace words that invite you to share the smallest of details in their lives. I am sometimes absorbed in the knowledge they impart, and sometimes buoyed by the light-hearted and humourous posts. And the pictures! There, - look at that wonderful composition, see the brightness, the mysterious, the prosaic, the pastoral, the sea, the sky, the rocks, the hills, the architecture, the land, the flowers and the trees, - and the beautiful faces.

It is mesmerizing to be moved a world away to a farm, a stream, a village or a city, - to find oneself absorbed in the intimate atmosphere of a family, and to be enchanted by so many diverse ways of living, of thinking, of place and of language.

For the 'ancients' it is an incredible place to be, and the technology that joins the world together so awesome as to be almost unbelievable.

I give great thanks that I have lived so long that I am able to make these fascinating journeys, and I come back to bedtime with a smile on my face and great satisfaction in my heart. As well as a comforting realization that the more things change the more they remain the same, - and that in the very depths of it all there is a bond that holds us all together in kindness and generosity and a wonderful spirit of acceptance.

Hysterical Times

I was buoyed when I read an article by Kevin Libin in the February 6th issue of the National Post. If anything is capable of buoying one in these days when we are bombarded on all sides with news of calamity and rhetorical disaster.

Kevin Libin, in an article in The National Post entitled Making the Worst of It injects a voice of reason and encouragement into this daily drama of economic catastrophe.

He quotes Amos Kiewe, a professor specializing in presidential rhetoric at Syracuse University. "I wish they would induce more confidence".. Indeed, the media and politicians have much to answer for as they promote a hysterical response to present day economic problems.

Libin points out that "these times are not 'unprecedented'. This is not unlike anything we've seen. Serious economists do not call this a 'depression,' or predict a return to bread lines, work camps and street urchins peddling apples on the streets."

Unemployment rates in the U.S. are expected to peak "somewhere shy of 9%, jobless rates won't match the nearly 11% reached in 1981/82, let alone the peak of 25% during the Depression". What we have here is a rather bad recession, - but certainly more in line with 1975, 1981/82 and the early 1990's. The future of this recession bears little resemblance to the Great Depression of the 1930's, and when politicians and newspapers and TV heads shriek disaster and desolation it is wise to keep the statistics relevant.

It's always a mistake to do the ostrich routine, and hide one's head in the sand, but on the other hand when hard times strike it is fatal to collapse and wait for the catastrophe to rush over one.

Confidence, if not a miracle worker, can set a country on the right track. Libin cites a nationwide fireside chat that President Franklin Delano Roosevelt made in 1933, when America's banking system was on the brink of collapse and a fifth of the country's financial institutions were out of business, - when people had started a run on the remaining banks' cash, preferring a bird in the hand to one in what they perceived to be an unsafe bush in the banks.

"Roosevelt, having ordered the banks closed, spoke to a rattled and frightened nation.....he explained the basics of how banks worked, why they needed cash deposits, why most remained sturdy and the plan to gradually reopen them.

He concluded "You people must have faith, you must not be stampeded by rumours or guesses. Let us unite in banishing fear. We have provided the machinery to restore our financial system, and it is up to you to support and make it work. Together we cannot fail.

When the first banks began to reopen the following day, thousands of clients were lined up outside, ready to redeposit their money. America was soothed."


I am dismayed that the world has, unconsciously, become so materialistic. And I think about the 'simple' life and the virtues and peace it brings with it. What we need is basic food and shelter. What we have in addition are the safety nets of Unemployment Insurance and Medicare.

Why do we want so much more? We struggle to obtain luxuries, and call them our 'standard of living' - we put all our energies into accumulating 'things' and are terrified at the thought of doing without them.

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers:
William Wordsworth



People do live 'marginal' lives quite happily, - even now.

I had a beloved friend whose motto was 'things will always be someway', - and that is true. Things will always be someway, and if we have courage and confidence we will cope with whatever way they are.

Keven Libin's article did not linger long in the paper. It did not inspire too many comments, - certainly not the comments that bad news and startling statistics engender, - alas!

It is time to strengthen the sinews of our hearts, embrace a ton of confidence, be unafraid, live prudently, but not miserly, enjoy small pleasures, be happy... and remember that Roosevelt, in his inaugural address in 1933, also made this statement

"So, first of all, let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself — nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance."

These words of Emily Dickinson, - I find them poignant and am mindful of them as February advances slowly and erratically into spring.

Last night I slept fitfully. When I wakened early in the morning, about two a.m., the moon cast a bright light to the north, and I lay watching it through the upper window, enchanted with the porcelain glow.

I didn't fall back to sleep immediately, and when I finally closed my eyes I drifted into that state of wakeful sleep, where you are conscious of being on the cusp, and your mind is still busily sorting and shifting and filing the day into the little drawers of the brain (or the heart, or the soul - I am confident that some things we remember in the heart and those are the things that stay with us to the end).

I woke, again and again, and then drifted back into the same dreamlike state, until finally I was conscious enough to control my thoughts and began to plan the coming day.

I would go into the garden! And so was born Hope. I would go into the garden with a shovel and move some of the drifted snow off the patio and the pathway, and perhaps a little where the bulbs are planted and where the Lenten Roses grow, to see if spring lay waiting beneath the snow that melts by day and freezes by night.

What a lovely plan, but first of all I must feed the birds, and make some vegetable soup for lunch and change the linen on the beds..and then I must go and pick up a friend to go to a ladies' meeting. And then, of course, it was time for happy hour, and dinner, and I never did get into the garden, even though I dreamt and hoped that life was stirring beneath the softened snow.

Well, "Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul, and sings...." and tomorrow is another day.

September Day in the Garden

Early this morning when Caspar and I went walking there was the faintest aroma of skunk, again.

Can this be considered a sign of spring, - or was Mother Skunk just turning over in her comfy bed under the neighbour's outshed?????

No matter, the Groundhog saw his shadow, but my sister and my husband both discount the Groundhog's influence over the weather.

So I will go with Maw Skunk, and look forward to seeing her soon on her daybreak stroll, - with her little ones trailing behind.....

Let me tell you, nigh on to sixty-four years of marriage and six children can engender a rattling number of pictures, photos, snaps - and this is not counting the years we used a movie camera!

Nigh on to sixty four years of marriage and six children, (plus the cows and the sheep and the orchard and the work outside the farm and husband's fatal attraction to Directorships) - well, it doesn't leave much time to sit down and organize the pictures.

They get left out to look at, and then finally are put away (neatly) in boxes. However, by the time they have been riffled through by various children, or parents, the lack of organized filing is sadly apparent.

I think that probably in the last ten years I have been nudged by the urgency of 'getting things in order' at least a dozen times. I make a start on the job, full of enthusiasm. But you know how it is looking through pictures, - you linger here, over a long forgotten picture, and your mind wanders back as you reminisce about the time and place and the people and the circumstances.

Soon it is time to get supper, or go to town, or someone visits, and everything gets shoved back into the box until another day.

Now that age and mobility preclude us from cross country skiing or any of the other winter pleasures we used to indulge in, there is more time to poke through the pictures boxes and reminisce.

And that is what Charles and I did for a good part of the day.....

To get to the nub of the matter, - last July, when I wrote about cherry pies, and the picking of cherries, I looked for a picture of my father-in-law, taken when he was cutting down one of the large Lambert cherry trees in his orchard.

Today I found the picture.....



At the time of this adventure at the top of the cherry tree my father-in-law was past his mid sixties! Charles says his mother probably took the picture, all the while muttering imprecations. And small prayers, I would think....

The 20 foot ladder set half way up the tree is the base from which his father started his climb, sawing off branches as he went. A brave and careful man, - he lived to 102.

Cherry trees then were much larger and more robust that the convenient espaliered rows you find today. And as a consequence orchardists, if they were not larger and more robust, had at least to be sure of foot, nimble and finely balanced!

He who was chosen to pick the top of the tree had to have an accomplice. They went out early in the morning, equipped with pails and ropes, and the cherry picker passed his full buckets down to the ground where it was emptied and sent back up to be refilled. All morning, until noon, his deft fingers gathered the fruit, running the round, sweet cherries along his hand and into the bucket.

As I remember the children always came in with wine stained lips at cherry picking time, and although I didn't eat many cherries while picking them I was a devil when it came to tree ripened apricots!!

O what would the fellows who come around with booms and trucks to tidy up trees say about this daring entrepreneurship.


(When questioned as to what his father was carrying, up there in the blue, Charles replied, ' probably a parachute'.....)

We will be back to the pictures and the memories again tomorrow,,unless the sun shines and distracts us!

A week ago today we climbed the pass, searching for sun and blue skies, and here at the top we found not what we were looking for, but beauty nonetheless...



"...the hand that shaped the rose has wrought the crystal of the snow, has sent the silvery frost of heaven, the flowing waters sealed, and laid a silent loveliness on hill and wood and field" Frances Whitmarsh Wile, 1914


This morning's sunrise heralded a day that gradually grew warmer and kinder to old bones and spirits grown weary of Old Man Winter roaring around the hills, and the biting wind that accompanies him. A mild day, - even the faintest and first intimations of February thaws.



A good day to see things settling down somewhat in Parliament, but at what cost???

Last night I watched the media interview an auto worker, laid off. His wife had also lost her job.

Well, to be generous, he may not have been one of the autoworkers who have been making $70.00 and hour, - he may have only been making $50.00 an hour, - but it makes me very uncomfortable to think that a couple who have had two incomes and who are both drawing Unemployment Insurance should be in such dire straits that they expect the government to rescue them, and the industry that supports them, with a wildly indulgent, throwing-all-caution-to-the-winds-budget.

Hard times come to most of us sometime in our lives. And how we accept them and cope with them is surely indicative of our inner strength.

It dismays me that materialism has become a way of life, - that the thought of having to lower our standard of living is so terrifying.

There are not many still living who struggled with the hardships of the Dirty Thirties. What was there to relieve the dreadful economic times? There was no Unemployment Insurance, but there were Work Camps.





There were no great Infrastructure plans, but you could work on the roads for a few pennies a day...

Thousands of men traveled by rail, searching for jobs....



My grandparents lived close to the rail yards, - their gate was marked with the hobo symbol indicating kindness and generosity within.

Out on the farm if you had no gas to get to town, there was always the Bennettbuggy..



These are the days that not one of us could wish back. These are the days that cause the 'ancients' to still save string, and to fix and mend and make do. But amongst the heart ache and desolation that those years brought there was a strengthening of character, a bonding, a sense of community and an awareness and compassion for each other that inevitably resulted in good times and laughter and appreciation. And a pride in being able to withstand, - a knowledge of your own strength and your capacity to persevere and endure.

I ask myself if this childish reliance on government will at sometime destroy our civilization. O morbid thought....

If we could only temper our 'wants' and be content with our 'needs'.